The Green Bowl

Ever go through your life knowing someone without REALLY knowing who they are? It happens. Sometimes it happens without you knowing about it. Other times, you try and try and try, but you never really break through. And, sadly, sometimes, it is too late.

I had a dream the other night about my grandmother. Don’t ask me what it was about, but I have been having Grandma dreams recently. A few nights ago, I found myself leading a group of people through a gauntlet of woods, underbrush, and treacherous rock-hopping when we happened upon my grandmother’s house, which was mysteriously set up in the woods. Mysterious because my grandparents lived in Chester, Pennsylvania, which is a blue-collar foothill of Philadelphia. The only thing that would have even closely resembled woods in that neighborhood was an old gnarled tree that had blasted its way through the brick sidewalk and stood sentry in front of their house like some giant mutant broccoli. I remember the bark on that tree used to flake off rather easily, like a hard-boiled egg shell. Hey, when you are a 10-year-old kid at your grandparents’ house for the weekend, you take the fun where you can get it.

Anyway, when me and my band of merry men and women arrived at this mysterious house in the woods, the place was overgrown with vines inside and out. I remember thinking, as I was standing alone in the cramped little kitchen, that I really missed my grandmother.

My grandmother was named Adeline, or "Addie" as my grandfather would call her. She came over on the boat with her family and eventually met my grandfather. They married, had two kids and lived a nice middle-class lifestyle. She had bad eyesight and used to wear these big round glasses that looked like telephoto lenses. I put them on once, looked up and I could swear that I could see Neptune. Those glasses were so thick and powerful that I feared for my grandma’s life when she went out in the sun. I think I have a logical answer to all those spontaneous combustion cases: check the glasses and their proximity to an ambient light source.

Anyway, in the early 1980’s, my grandfather passed away. It was sad. No, it was devastating. He was the first grandparent to pass away and I didn’t take it well. I also noticed something. I noticed that I didn’t REALLY know who he was. Sure, holidays, cookouts, and family get-togethers provide the opportunity, but sadly, most of the memories of my grandfather have come second-hand or in a scurrying fashion after he had a stroke a little while before he passed. One particular moment I recall was when I was at my Aunt and Uncle’s house after my grandfather had his stroke. I had witnessed a man close to my grandfather’s age die right in front of me in a parking lot that summer, so I was ripe with the realities of mortality. My grandfather and I were in the kitchen alone talking about baseball. Then, he reached down to tie his shoes. He couldn’t. He tried again. And again. And again, to no avail. Finally, he looked up at me and said, his eyes moist with frustration, "I know HOW to tie my shoelaces, but my hands just won’t DO it." That shook me then and it shakes me know. His mind was functioning, but his motor skills were now stripped. It left him feeling helpless. It left me feeling helpless as well.

My grandmother kept on keeping on. She was a dynamo. You could never be in her kitchen. She was the maestro, an artiste, a simple woman with a cooking IQ of 300. She never complained about making you whatever you wanted at whatever time of day or night as long as you finished what you ordered. To this day, I have no idea how an 80-pound kid like me was able to inhale three steak sandwiches in one sitting - after dinner, no less, while she was playing Keno with the neighbors.

While she could whip up obscure Italian dishes with odd-sounding names, the holidays are where she REALLY shined. In many Italian families, Christmas Eve Dinner is almost as big as Christmas Dinner. We ate well. Very well. Everything was homemade and perfect. I would help her make raviolis in the basement. I’d mix the ricotta (the secret ingredient was cinnamon) and knead the dough. We’d run it through the press until the pasta was thin enough for raviolis and then scoop the ricotta, fold the dough over and crimp them with the crimper. She was always patient with me and never measured a thing. She was a culinary black belt.

I could go on and on about the wonderful memories of my grandmother. Like, how she turned off the Nat King Cole and let us put our new Kiss records on the hi-fi and then dance with us in the living room. Well, as long as Grandpop was not in the house. How we would weed her garden and go to lunch together. How she would teach me obscure card games and play until late. How scary that house was at night….

I remember always eating from this ceramic green cereal bowl. It was just a regular bowl, mind you, but it was my favorite. It was always in the cabinet to the left of the sink. Second shelf. If there was one object in that house that I would identify with my grandmother, it was her bringing me a bowl of pre-sweetened cereal in that bowl and letting me fill it up as often as I liked and at any time of the day or night. I can still hear the spoon clanking off the rim of the bowl when I was done. It rang like a fire bell.

In that dream I had the other night, I was in the kitchen while everyone else was parading throughout the rest of the house. Someone appeared next to me and asked what I was looking for. I didn’t know what to tell him because I didn’t really know. But, I was positioned to the left of the sink and looking on the second shelf for something that was no longer there. I now know what it was.

It was that green cereal bowl.

I miss you, Grandma.